The Sly Menace
by XXXEdwardAddictXXX
Summary: I can't wait to know more about Season 3, so I'm writing fanfic in anticipation. This is set 4 years later, like the next series will be. The main characters still suffer the consequences of their actions last time around, and everyone wants a revenge.
1. Chapter 1

Four years had passed since that deplorable day when Sergeant Drake had refused to kill off Inspector Shine in a fit of human decency. In the mean time, all the heroes and all the villains had tried to pick up the pieces of their lives, which they had stupidly screwed up during that awful year 1889.

Inspector Reed was depressed. His wife was still in the loony bin, his daughter was still missing and probably drowned, and Captain Jackson was still crashing on the sofa. Jackson's wife, Long Susan, was pissed at him for doing idiotic things that made her have to sleep with a gross guy. It was a very good reason to be mad, though. Now she was busy setting up a name for herself as Victorian London's first and best female super-villain. She had determined that she would rule the criminal underworld, and Jackson would be sorry he's made her dump him.

Jackson was depressed because he loved no other woman like he loved Susan. And he couldn't sleep with Rose just like that anymore, because it would break Sergeant Drakes heart, and make him break Jackson's nose. So Jackson comforted himself with booze and cigarettes and cutting up the dead corpses that had been killed by London's many murderers.

Rose was also depressed, although she was usually too busy to notice. She was a successful singer now, and drew full houses every night. She still loved Sergeant Drake, but he refused to believe she loved him, so nothing could happen between them. The last couple of years, Rose had been touring a lot, and she had her own band and back-up singers now. She was out of London most of the time, and had hoards of fanboys writing her romantic letters and sending her their long-johns, but after that time she met a pony-tailed kidnapper in the ads she was more suspicious of their behaviour.

Emily was also very depressed in the loony bin.

But nobody was more depressed than Sergeant Drake, who had a huge hole were his heart used to be. To give a little re-cap of what happened to him four years earlier: His friend tricked him into doing a gold heist, and then killed himself, giving Drake PTSD. Rose refused to marry him because he would be an obstacle to her career. His other friend turned out to be bent and heavily involved in the drug trade, and got murdered by Inspector Shine. He had married Bella, but she turned out to already have a husband who was a scary sect leader. The sect tried to kill Drake and Rose, and when that failed, Bella stabbed herself to death in front of him because she realized he couldn't love her the same way after that. After several weeks in the blackest depression since that time with a completely different Bella and ten blank pages, Drake found it in his heart that he couldn't beat the snot out of suspects anymore. They got a lot less confessions nowadays, and that was the beginning of frustrating modern policing where criminals have all sorts of rights over honest people. But at least he hadn't sunken to the depths of killing a fellow policeman, eh?

The not-killed policeman in question, Inspector Jedediah Shine, was not depressed. He was **pissed.** Four years earlier, he'd had a thriving mafia going, but the pesky humanitarians over in H-Division had put a stop to most of it. His drug-trade was busted, and his accomplices were either in prison or he'd had to murder them. He hated it when he had to bump off perfectly useful commodities like that. Some bastards had killed his unofficial employer, and there was now a lot less demand for his strangling skills, because not a lot of people could be trusted to know he **had** them, dammit. Not being able to strangle people made him almost as twitchy as not getting laid. Out of all the rotten things Edmund Reed had done, throwing his girlfriend in the slammer was the most grating. Not to mention that he was no longer the ultimate fighter. Sergeant Drake had knocked him unconscious, and he'd spent three months on a steam-operated life-support system. That was humiliating. But at least he had a plan, an evil plan. Edmund Reed would not know what had hit him… Muahahaha!


	2. Chapter 2

Constable Albert Flight was walking home in the evening. He was still working as a policeman, because officially the H-division had nothing to charge him with. Without any justified cause, they couldn't just kick him out either. If that was to happen, rumour had it his past criminal records would end up in the hands of a certain one-eared journalist, and Edmund Reed's career would be in the bog. They all still hated him, but he was a stubborn sort who was determined to prove himself to them once again. He was starting to get disheartened that it was taking four years, though.

Suddenly he felt two strong hands around his neck, and he was pulled into an alley. There, in the darkness, he could see two green, glowing eyes like some sort of evil cat. But it was much worse than that, actually.

"Albert, my boy…" hissed a gravelly voice. "Long time, no see. I thought you had forgotten your old buddy."

"In…spector Shine!" said Albert, when his heart started beating again. "How very… nice to see you again!"

Inspector Shine laughed hollowly. "If I didn't know you were a brave man, son, I'd have said you were scared of old Jed," he said. "Don't worry, I'm not out to snuff ya. Not tonight, at least. "

"That's great, I guess," replied Albert. "What is it you want?"

"Now let me think," said Shine, scratching his head. "After Sergeant Drake pulled a dirty ace on me, my brilliant memory hasn't been what it once was. I have amongst other things all but forgotten how you tried to kill me in cold blood last time we met."

"I'm Sorry about that, sir," said Albert, and almost meant it.

"I know you are," said Shine. "You're too sensitive a soul to relish in the thrill of the kill. That's you, son. A good man. Not like that sanctimonious bastard you've spent the past four years groveling to."

"Inspector Reed is a good man, sir!" Albert protested. "He's a better man than either of us could ever hope to be if we never did anything villainous again for the rest of our lives, and started doing charity work for the poor."

"Oh, I'm doing a **lot** for the poor," hissed Shine, pulling Albert up by the collar until his bushy mustache tickled Albert's nose. "I took care of **you**, I seem to remember!"

"That you did, sir" admitted Albert, not feeling completely on top of the situation there. "And I will always be grateful to you for giving me a chance. But not for making a monster out of me."

Shine let go of Albert's coat, and he fell to the ground like a sack of potatoes.

"I mean it!" Albert said. "I would rather you strangled me with your beloved piano wire than working for you again, after what I saw you do!"

Inspector Shine started laughing quietly.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" he chuckled. "For old Jed to make you a martyr in the eyes of Saint Edmund of Leman Street? He would finally forgive you, realize that you had it in you all along."

Albert got to his feet, and dusted himself off, giving Inspector Shine what he hoped was a defiant look in the mean time.

"You want to be a good man," Inspector Shine continued, "But the great and honourable Inspector Reed does not see you as one. He's too caught up in his own crumbling self worth to be forgiving of the missteps of others. But **I** know you are a good man, son. Just remember that, if the time should come when your loneliness becomes too much to bear."

And with that, Inspector Shine was off, strolling down the street like he owned it, which he probably did.

Albert suppressed a shudder, and continued on his way home. He knew very well that Inspector Shine was not the sort of chap to stop for a jovial chat with an old protégé just to wish him all the best in the future. He wanted something, and Albert was pretty sure he knew exactly what it was. Shine had hatched a new plan, hadn't he, a plan to take down Inspector Reed and H-Division? And what could Albert do about it? Would Inspector Reed even believe him if he told him about it? Or maybe that was exactly what Inspector Shine wanted him to do? In that case, he wasn't going to tell Reed anything. After all, he probably constantly suspected Shine of being up to no good. It was not exactly as if Albert was privy to those conversations anymore.

Sometimes Albert wished he'd been deported off to Australia after that whole tragic gin-situation. Life was probably a lot simpler down there.


	3. Chapter 3

The suspect was incredibly fast for a man in a long, heavy cape. Albert had been close to catching up on him a couple of times, but obstacles in the way had slowed him down. The suspect seemed to know the route very well, or he had some sort of supernatural powers (Nonsense, said Inspector Reed), because he skipped over rubble and swung around corners like a cat.

Albert had followed the caped suspect up onto the rooftops of the Whitechapel rookeries. Even up here, the mysterious man seemed to know the path like the back of his hand. (No offense to Keane, plagiarism not intended.) Suddenly they both found the way blocked by a huge chimney that didn't leave any room for skirting around it.

"Stop!" said Albert, his voice trembling. "I'm arresting you in the name of the Law!"

The suspect stopped, and started turning around slowly. He looked like he was ready to put up a fight. Albert was bracing himself for a defiant act of bravery, when suddenly the piece of pediment under his right foot broke off. By some miracle, he managed to grab onto the drain pipe, and avoided the seven-floor drop down into the street.

Inspector Reed came walking across the roof.

"Constable Flight," he said in his deep baritone voice that was permanently tinged with loss and sorrow. "What are you doing? Don't let Jack the Ripper get away!"

"Help me!" Albert begged pathetically.

Reed came closer, and looked down at Albert like a history teacher who has just discovered the portrait you drew of him inside the cover of your notebook.

"Hobbs would have caught him by now," he said solemnly, and started walking away.

"Inspector Reed, forgive me!" shouted Albert. "I know I've been a terrible person, but please give me another chance!"

But Reed was gone.

As Albert was hanging off the roof, contemplating his predicament, the caped stranger reappeared. He approached the edge of the roof, and crouched down. Albert recognized his face now.

"Inspector Shine!" he gasped. "You're Jack the Ripper!"

"Of course I am!" Shine replied raspingly. "Who else could have performed such heinous crimes and gotten away with them in streets teeming with police? Some common butcher? A lunatic sailor? Queen Victoria herself? Now, give me your hand, son. Join me and be safe."

"NEVER!" shouted Albert. "What makes you think I ever trust you after everything I've seen? The only reason I tried to kill you back in the day was because you were about to kill ME!"

"I was not going to kill you," Shine said impatiently. "Just… showing you a little reminder of what might have happened if you became verbose in the immediate presence of Edmund Reed. Take my hand, son. I'll make a great man out of you yet, a man who will go down in history as the terror of London."

"Stop calling me 'son'!" shouted Albert. "Leave me alone!"

"Albert," said Shine, with a voice like Doomsday, "I am your father."

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" screamed Albert as he lost his grip on the pipe.

He fell through the air as memories of all his previous failings flashed in front of his eyes. The sudden stop didn't come, however. Instead he woke up in his own bed, drenched in sweat and with his heart racing like a greyhound on the tracks. Or as a husky in the Iditarod, which is a much more badass way of racing dogs.

The clock on the table told him it was time to get to work anyway. It was Monday morning, and the first corpse of the week was probably already on its way to Captain Jackson's dead room. Captain Jackson himself was probably still snoozing while dreaming up a new get-rich-scheme.


	4. Chapter 4

The sun was peeping up over the London skyline as Albert arrived at Leman Street Police Station. He had mixed feeling about spending another week in the place, feeling the eyes of his colleagues watching his every move when he entered as when he left, overhearing stabby remarks that he knew was meant for him although he wasn't invited to the conversation. But at the same time, he looked up to the brave men he worked with. He wanted to earn their trust once more.

At the front desk sat Sergeant Donald Artherton. He was a six-foot-tall orange beard in a police uniform. It appeared that there was a human inside, because pairs of arms and legs were coming out of it. He probably also had a face, because deep in all the shrubbery there were to eyes, but that was all anyone could remember having seen of it. Artherton was usually grumpy, and didn't like people, apart from Sergeant Drake.

Albert approached the desk.

"Sergeant Artherton, Sir?" he asked. "I wondered if I can ask you something."

"What is it, boy?" grumbled Artherton. "What do ya fink I can tell ye? You're s'posed ta be the edumacated one 'round 'ere."

"It's about Inspector Shine, Sir" Albert said, cringing a bit as Artherton's eyes darkened several shades. "When you arrested him four years ago, you took down some information on him. May I see it?"

"That's classified information, that is," replied Sergeant Artherton. "And yer not privvy to it, fanks to bein' 'is little tattle-rat."

"I know that, Sir," Albert said with resignation. "But I'm not asking for what you have on him. All I want to know is how old he is."

"Why," asked Sergeant Artherton. "Yer s'posed ta know 'im. Ye mean ye never gave 'im a birthday card?"

"Never," Albert assured him. "We weren't mates, we didn't spend time together outside work. I just need to know when he was born. Please, Sir."

"Awrigh", said Artherton, and started digging through his arrest files. "Says right 'ere, he was born in 1856."

So he has 42 years old. Was that old enough to have a 27-year-old son? Well, technically it was. Would have been a strange story that brought him to Ireland at the age of 15, though. Albert had actually thought Shine was a lot older, maybe around Sergeant Drake's age. Drake was 51.

"Thank you, Sir," said Albert, feeling a little more at ease. "One more thing, though. Do you think Inspector Shine may have been the Ripper?"

Sergeant Artherton got a look on his beard like he'd just heard a very stupid question.

"Of course I fink 'e could've been the Ripper!" he said experasperatedly. "Not a soul in 'ere 'oo doesn't! And it won't matter if ye were to tell 'im that, because 'e already knows. Now get ta work! There's an 'ole stack o' papers in there waitin' for ye to read, in search of clues to this awful business wif the Head-Swapper!"

'**The head swapper.**' That's what they called Whitechapel's latest killer. On Saturday, they had found the body of a working-class man. His head had been removed, and a pony's head put in its place. The composite corpse had been suspended from a beam in an alley, with a hook attached to the poor beast's bridle. They said the sight had put three women in the asylum.

Doctor Jackson was still trying to find anything in the human part of the body that could tell them something about the victim. And Albert, well he was to read through a heap of newspapers from years ago, to see if something similar had ever happened before in- out outside London. He yearned for the day the gleaming machine Reid often talked of would allow him to simply type "head-swap murder", push a button, and voilá: a lot of results. Maybe such a machine would also be able to find smutty photographs, all in the name of the law, of course. Albert sighed, and went to work.

Edmund Reid was pacing up and down the floor. A very concerned furrow had formed on his already serious brow.

"We need to find his head," he said. "I have a feeling that this was not an arbitrary victim. The murderer wanted to make a statement. I'm fairly sure the head has not been disposed of in the river or at a rubbish tip."

"I know, Mr Reid, Sir," said Drake. "But I still think we should have at least one man looking for the rest of the pony. There may be some clues there as well, like he was probably killed somewhere in the vicinity of where the pony was housed. I think we should find out if someone has reported a pony stolen."

"Bennet," said Reid in his soulful baritone, "you're barking up the wrong tree. Hundreds of ponies are slaughtered every day. Chances are good the owner sold it to a butcher because it was getting old. It will be impossible to find the right carcass."

"We could ask around butchers' shops if they've had a carcass stolen," Drake suggested. "A lot of meat on a pony, not as easy as filching a rabbit. The butcher would probably know."

"No, it's useless," Reid said morosely. "Besides, he's only stolen the head. The rest of the animal was probably left in place. No, the pony is not a clue, Bennet. It's this man's head we need to find."

As the pair of them walked towards the entrance to the police station, they noticed that Artherton was taking a statement from a scruffy-looking young man, who was on the verge of crying.

"He's brown with a white blaze down his forehead," the boy said, wiping away a tear. "And his mane is black, with a couple of braids in it. His bridle is black leather with brass buckles."

"Hang on," said Drake. "Son, are you saying you've lost a pony?"

The boy looked up in surprise. He was very young, probably no more than fourteen, a bit tall for his age and very thin.

"Someone's taken me Old Danny!" he said. "On Saturday morning he was gone from the stable, and me Dad though it was Uncle Henry who had borrowed him, because he never asks. But now we've found out it wasn't him, and our neighbour saw a man in a dark cloak taking him out late Friday night."

Drake's hangdog expression got a little sadder than it already was.

"You'd better come with me, son," he said calmly. "I think I know what happened."

"Bennet, no," said Reid. "You cannot show **that** to a child."

"Oh, the man's not attached to it anymore," Drake replied. "Jackson separated them. I'm just going to show him the head, and let him see if it really is his Old Danny."

The boy looked really sad and lost, standing there. Reid felt a strong wave of sympathy washing up, as tears rolled down the young man's cheeks.

"He's dead, isn't he?" he asked. ¨

"Well, son," Reid said quietly, "The horse in there is. But we don't really know if it is yours. However, you need to get your father to identify it, since he's probably its legal owner."

"He's at work," said the boy. "Me Dad's a blacksmith, he works down in Potter Street. He can't come until tonight. Please, Sir. I know Old Danny better than anyone. If it's him, I'll know."

"No," said Reid. "We have to follow correct procedure. If your father is busy, we can bring the head to where he works. Flight! I have a job for you!"

Albert heard his name called, and his heart did a weird flip. A job? He would do anything Inspector Reid asked him to, even wash the latrine.

As Albert entered the front room, the large, looming shape of Chief Inspector Abberline extracted itself through the street door. His expression was that of an impending tornado.

"Edmund," he said, "You're not going to like this."

Reid looked quizzingly at him.

"What am I not going to like," he asked. "There has not been any more dead men with animal heads found, has there?"

"Quite the opposite," said Abberline. "I think someone's found the head your victim's missing."

"But that is good news!" exclaimed Reid. "Is it not?"

Two officers in uniform came in, carrying a stretcher between them. Abberline pulled away the white sheet that covered whatever was on it. Everyone fell silent.

On the stretcher was the body of a relatively large bulldog, but where there should have been a dog's head, there was instead that of a human with an expression of utmost terror and agony on it's face.

"And it gets better," said Abberline. "This was found in Limehouse, which means this is now a joint investigation."

"WHAT?" exclaimed Drake. "Chief Inspector, you're not saying we have to work on this case with…"

The front door flew open, and there stood Inspector Shine in all his plaid glory.


End file.
